


Diamond

by penkipenguin



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 02:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15653967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penkipenguin/pseuds/penkipenguin
Summary: A love letter to baseball and summer mornings.





	Diamond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bao (sunwukong)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunwukong/gifts).



Kumon knew he would wake up before six today.

Some people might ask, who gets up early on the first day of summer vacation? But for Kumon, summer vacation always meant rising before the cicadas to run ten laps around the school field. _One, two, three, four. First years, I can’t hear you!_ Even after First Crush Baseball, the voices that echo through his mind are those of his former teammates. Yamaguchi should be awake by now; he was always the first to arrive to practice, ready with an extra set of towels in case someone forgot to bring his (there was always one). Then Kumon would arrive, and if they had time, they would toss a ball around a few times before their warm-up run, discussing the Tiggers game from last night, or the homework they didn’t do, or… _One, two, three, four._

The only real sound in the room at the moment is Sumi~san’s peaceful breathing. Kumon rolls out of the three square inches of bedsheet that managed to stay on his body and tiptoes down the loft. He doesn’t need to think too hard when pulling one of fifteen white t-shirts from the drawer—wait, this one smells like nii-chan’s—but the rest of his training gear requires two extra seconds of discernment. Blue mesh shorts seem like a good, cool choice; he goes with that, sliding a white ball into his pocket while he’s at it. Earrings in, socks on. The bat lying against the wall catches his eye, but he decides against it. It’s a nice day for a walk.

 

The beauty drill sergeant catches Kumon at the entrance.

“At least I remembered my bug repellant~...” Kumon whines, smearing the superfluously named sunscreen (UV-silky-something—face perfume?) across his nose. “Your dedication to this anti-sunburn campaign is admirable. It’s still 6 A.M.”

“Because some people forget to apply sunscreen even when it’s right there, sign and all,” Azami replies, pointing to Ken-san’s latest masterpiece. “Neck.”

“Ah. I always forget the neck. Thanks, Azami!”

“...Are you headed out for a walk? I need to restock on sunscreen.”

“Yeah, wanna come? But doesn’t the drugstore open at 9?” Kumon says, distracted by the unfamiliar terminology on the bottle.

“The conbini works too.”

“Ok! I wanna drop by the conbini too~. Do you need me to wait a bit?”

“Give me ten minutes.”

 

 _One, two, three, four._ Kumon tosses the baseball in his left hand as they head down the street. The smell of sunscreen and dirt makes him restless; he fights the urge to burst into a sprint by talking to Azami, keeping his voice low.

“So why were you up early today? Don’t tell me it was actually for the campaign.”

“...Shithead Sakyo’s skin has been acting up these past few days, so I made him promise me he’d get eight hours of sleep last night. Lights went out at 9.” Azami brushes a tiny bug off the sleeve of his oversized black t-shirt. “Guess I need to get new bug repellant too.”

“How’d you even notice that thing?” Kumon asks, swallowing his comment about how well Azami and Sakyo get along. “I guess you naturally wake up early when you go to bed at Sno—.”

“Cinderella time. Not that it matters, but how long are you going to keep getting it wrong?”

“I only know like three princesses anyway—Cinderella, Snow White, the really small one? Does she sleep a lot?”

“...Thumbelina?”

“Yeah, that one!”

Azami points to the morning glories climbing up a light green fence by the main road. The fence casts a striped pattern of long A.M. shadows across the pale-faced early bloomers that are sweating dew. Some kid must have freed their leftover seeds from a school project—better than letting them rot away in a drawer somewhere.

“She was born from a flower, you know.”

“That’s why she’s tiny!? Ah, conbini spotted!”

“Wait for the light to turn green.”

“I know _that_ much!”

 

Azami stares at the basket contents in disbelief: sunscreen, lozenges, and soda ice cream.

“You came here for _soda ice_?”

“Uh, don’t you ever yearn for that sparkling flavor at… six in the morning?”

“No.”

“...Agreed. I’ll put this back.”

Azami blocks Kumon’s hand as it reaches into the basket. “No, what I’m saying is—.” He searches his brain for the right words; in fact, he’s been searching for the right words for a while now. Kumon’s hand makes a sharp swerve around Azami’s wrist and grabs hold of the ice. “—Isn’t there anything else you want?”

Kumon blinks. Once, twice. Then he waves the ice. “Haha, I don’t know. Guess I just wanted to hang out with you, Azami. You should go buy your stuff!”

Azami returns the sunscreen to the shelf before making his purchase.

 

The question isn’t “want to wander for a bit?” but “which way?”

Kumon chooses left. So North, Azami says, towards the river. If left is North, then yeah, North! Kumon replies. How many times are we going to repeat _this_ exchange? Once, twice, three times, forever? Radio exercise music plays in the distance as two boys rush by them. Go go! Kumon shouts, don’t be late on your first day! The boy in the navy cap turns around and sticks out his tongue. Azami laughs, don’t you need to join them? Kumon makes a face. Hey! I stopped going to radio exercises in middle school because of morning practice. But we can do radio exercise 9 together if you want! Azami makes the same face. No thanks. Once was enough.

 _One, two, three, four._ Kumon begins tossing the ball again as they approach the viaduct, and Azami quietly marvels at how he keeps a steady rhythm even while talking. The temperature drops two degrees when they enter the shadows, but Kumon’s voice bouncing off the walls gives the illusion that it’s two degrees hotter. A lukewarm breeze tousles Azami’s bangs, and he stops for a moment to fix them while gazing at the still-sweatless white t-shirt in front of him. He decides that those shoulders are too broad to be the same as those of the kids rushing to radio exercises. The echoing stops as Kumon steps into the light, and Azami feels like he can breathe again. He closes his eyes and inhales his moment of peace without realizing what a dangerous move that is around an incarnation of summer.

“Catch!”

It’s two degrees warmer again.

 

In all fairness, it was a soft underhand pass that Azami had no trouble catching several times before. He wasn’t hurt, and Kumon thoroughly apologized, so none of that was a problem.

“Come on, Azami. I’m really sorry. Did it hurt that bad?”

The problem was that Kumon laughed.

Azami throws him a sideways glance. The ground beneath his palms is moist; he stands up to prevent getting grass stains on his clothes. This way he can also feel a like less of a kid—maybe the idea that height equals maturity is inherently childish, but that doesn’t matter to him right now.

“I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt.”

“But you still look mad~. Is it because I laughed?” Kumon leaps up and leans in. “Good, at least your forehead isn’t red.”

“Laughter is good,” Azami replies. He means it; he knows that it’s Kumon’s medicine and specialty, a language that belongs to Summer Troupe. Ah, screw it, he thinks. I’ll just say what’s on my mind. “I wanted you to laugh, actually.” Just not like _that_.

Kumon’s eyes widen for a brief moment before he swings his arm high into the air.

“One more time! Catch, Azami!”

“This will hurt more than that surprise attack,” Azami says, crab-walking towards the landing point. _Thump_. The pop fly lands safely in his palms. “...Okay, that wasn’t too bad.”

“Of course! This gentle pitcher has total control over his powers!”

“Your _chuuni_ is showing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Toss it back!”

Overhand pass. Underhand toss. They throw softly enough (Yuki or Azuma-san might complain), but after some time the repeated dull slaps against their palms make them painfully aware that bare hands aren’t made for hardball catch. They keep on going anyway, because Azami knows that Kumon doesn’t want to stop. Kumon accepts that kindness and chooses to return his warmth with words.

“...Hey, so. I was actually considering getting a home run bar at the conbini.”

“A home run bar? Isn’t that thing too sweet for your taste?”

“You know how my birthday lands on the last day of classes?”

“After all that partying just yesterday? Yeah.”

The toss is a little low. Kumon steps forward and catches the ball with his fingertips.

“We—my old team celebrated by dropping by the conbini after practice. We got the birthday kid a home run bar.”

Yamaguchi probably paid the 140 yen on Kumon’s special day. Birthday magic worked wonders on the usually-unpalatable milky flavor—maybe it was the strange mix of hilarity and camaraderie enveloped in the scene: a group of high-school boys huddled around an ice cream bar to see if it awarded them a home run, a single, a double, or a triple. (Or nothing at all, which called for a round of ‘don’t mind!’s.) Kumon didn’t need any points towards free ice cream, but he couldn’t forget the satisfaction of kicking off summer vacation with a home run. _Good vibes, good vibes! We might really make it to the Koshien this year! You had a sharp grip on your slider today, Hyodo—._

“I see,” Azami replies. For a split second, he considers offering to buy a home run bar on their way back, but he’s neither brave nor foolish enough to give the wrong answer.

“And…” Kumon shifts his middle and index fingers to align with the seam of the ball, tucking his pinky underneath his ring finger. He notices that his thumbnail isn’t the optimal length for a slider and switches gears to a basic fastball grip. “Yesterday was the best birthday of my life.”

“We all heard that enough times yesterday.”

“Because it’s true!” Kumon says. A flood of triangular baseballs, Sankaku-kuns, and Muku-hugs attacked him the moment the date changed, and nothing could beat Omi-san’s whipped-cream-free cheesecake which Sumi~san cut into perfect triangular slices. Yuki and Kazu-san collaborated to make Sakura High LINE stamps and accessories for everyone in Summer Troupe; Tenma-san promised to take them out to the hamburger shop near the stadium, and nii-chan hit a grand slam during the MANKAI baseball tournament. And that wasn’t even his actual gift.

“Everyone poured their love into sharing my passion,” he continues, “I thought I was gonna combust with happiness.”

“Don’t combust.”

“It’s a figure of speech!”

“I’m kidding. Glad you enjoyed it.”

“Yeah. That’s why...”

Kumon glances at his hand. Knuckleball.

“You’re surprised at how restless you’ve been? Even though you pitched the whole game?”

“You noticed?” He looks up and meets Azami’s eyes.

“I noticed. Because you—whenever you come to the yard at night, you usually have something on your mind,” Azami replies. The scene had been haunting him all morning. “So I thought I could lend an ear. Or at least tell you to go to bed.” After the party ended and the lights went out—far past Cinderella time—he was drawn to the yard by the sound of a bat slicing the air. _One, two, three, four._

“Azami.”

“But I couldn’t. Because you looked like you wanted to do nothing but swing.”

“...Yeah. Yeah.” Curveball. Change-up. It’s not an aching loneliness for an old dream or days gone by; every inch of Kumon’s body just refuses to forget.

“I’m not a jock, so I don’t know what exactly you’re missing, but,” Azami presses his brain for an example, “If I decided not to become a makeup artist and someone told me to quit taking care of my skin, I’d knock them out. So I think you’re fine.” Bad example, he tells himself, but the look on Kumon’s face says that it’s not the wrong answer.

“Pfft. That one didn’t cross my mind. Thanks, Azami.”

“Shut up. How long are you going to keep the ball to yourself?”

“Hm~, I think I’ll monopolize it till we get home.”

“No more surprise attacks.”

“I promise!” Kumon offers his pinky, and Azami’s retort is cut off by the abrupt call of a cicada, so he takes the promise with a dissatisfied glare. Dirt, calluses, and sweat. It’s a good thing hands are exempt from the daily skincare checkup. “Ah,” Kumon exclaims, as he swings their fingers back and forth, “While we’re at it, let’s share a papico ice cream! Don’t you ever yearn for that sparkling flavor at seven in the morning?”

“Maybe just once in a while.”

“Or we can get it later, when you go to get your sunscreen at the drugstore!”

“...Wait. Kumon.”

Kumon grins, and Azami feels the tips of his ears grow red. This time, he lets the cicadas drown him out—he’s talked more than enough for a day. Sunbeams climb up the river and make their way onto Kumon’s earrings as he runs towards the viaduct. Azami squints; he’s tempted to close his eyes again, but he shields them with his clammy right hand instead, inadvertently framing the image in the back of his mind.

Somewhere in the distance, the crack of a bat swings open the door to summer.


End file.
